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Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses—Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lips, the rose
Growing one's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes—
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this for thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

Poem: Cupid and Campaspe.

How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morne not waking til she sings.

P. 229. Compare: "To rise with the lark and go to bed with the lamb", Breton, Court and Country, 1618 (reprint, page 182); "Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed", James Hurdis, The Village Curate.

A comely olde man as busie as a bee.

P. 252.

Maydens, be they never so foolyshe, yet beeing fayre they are commonly fortunate.

P. 279.

Where the streame runneth smoothest, the water is deepest.

P. 287. Compare: "Passions are likened best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb", Sir Walter Raleigh, The Silent Lover.

Your eyes are so sharpe that you cannot onely looke through a Milstone, but cleane through the minde.